O DAY most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
The indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with His blood;
The couch of time, care's balm and bay:
The week were dark, but for thy light;
Thy torch doth show the way.

SUNDAY.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The workydays are the back-part ;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone To endless death: but thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on One, Whom, if we were not very dull,

We could not choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which He doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities,

They are the fruitful beds and borders

In God's rich garden: that is bare, Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on Time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rife—

More plentiful than hope.

SUNDAY.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for His;
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those
Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at His passion
Did the earth and all the things move.
As Samson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence :
Wherefore that robe we cast away

Having a new at His expense,

Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,

And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth :

And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth :

O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,

Fly hand in hand to heaven!

GEORGE HERBERT.

CELIA'S TRIUMPH.

SEE the chariot at hand here of love,
Wherein my lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And enamour'd do wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her, she is bright

As love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her!

CELIA'S TRIUMPH.

And from her arch'd brows, such a grace

Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touch'd it?

Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow,
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver,
Or swan's down ever?

Or have smell'd of the bud o' the brier?

Or the 'nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

BEN JONSON.

STILL TO BE NEAT.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast ;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed :
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;